


Fickle Fate

by ragejohn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aged Characters, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Might be more later - Freeform, Multiple Universes, Reverse Falls, Reverse Falls AU, canon plot spread across several years, deals with Bill, realized I added basically everyone to the cast, some changes naturally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-13 09:13:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4516239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragejohn/pseuds/ragejohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dipper and Mabel Pines have been running the Marquee of Magic for years, but Dipper's more interested in the mysteries of Gravity Falls than his sister ever was. He's ready to try out a little independence from now on...</p><p>But when his explorations land him in a world where Mabel wears sweaters and a boy with his name has a trucker hat, he might just have to rely on a dream demon's sketchy deals to make his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The woods were deep, expansive. Armed with only his wits—and those were fast fading—Dipper ran. Performing alongside his sister at the Marquee of Magic had improved his footwork, and with agile steps, he managed to dodge the largest of the roots, the hidden pitfalls which would trip him up.

But that didn't mean he could outpace the creature at his heels. It roared, scattering a dozen trees with one swoop of its arm. The appendage, measuring in at a nearly forty feet, was coated in a tough layer of gleaming black bark.

In between leaps, Dipper cast a backwards glance at the creature, a litany of curses soaring through his head as tired pants left his lips. He was much more accustomed to athletics than Mabel, but he had been running for nearly an hour already, or so he'd wager. Every once in a while, he would manage to fool the towering beast, sliding underneath a bed of leaves or a hollow crest of a hill. On one such occasion, he had thrown the journal into his shadow, stowing it away so he wouldn't have to carry the damned thing anymore.

But then it would find him, and reach out with spindled branches which passed for hands, attempting to clutch at him. The second they neared, the air disrupted, Dipper's heart would shoot into his throat and he would let out a burst of blue heat and fire before again darting on swift feet.

He was tired in more ways than one after this ridiculous game of cat and mouse. Using the simple trick of flames would keep the creature at bay for a moment, but it would soon grow accustomed. It had already begun to thread vines and knotted wood over its palms, hoping to shield itself steadily until its grip could withstand the fire. And if it caught up, it might just crush him like a bug beneath its heels.

As he ran, vision spotting with black, he could not help but damn his own actions. Well, really, he had half a mind to damn Mabel and her choices in style. He had long since discarded his cape, but the long-sleeved button-down and slacks did little to aid him in the stifling heat.

But that was only half his mind, after all.

As the fatigue began to catch up with him, matching the overwhelming pace of his pursuer, his thoughts drifted, harried, jumbled up and nearly nonsensical.

Dipper ran, and remembered.

-

There was a knock at the door. Dipper flipped casually through a book of spells, although it was a heavy tome which one would not dare to take lightly. Fortunately for his ego, he had already memorized the dozens of lesser spells between its covers and had made admirable progress on the hundreds of greater spells besides. In any case, he had finished his review and started to actively absorb the text. Thus, Dipper was quite preoccupied, eyes roaming with laser precision over the information lavished before him. The majority of them, naturally, were not worth the effort of learning _—_ making metal bend, turning dew into a bewitching perfume, and so on _—_ but he read them all the same, curious as to their workings. It was not every day that he found such books, after all.

The knock came again. Mabel continued to tend to her nails, a blue glow surrounding the nail file as it levitated in the air, her amulet glowing in sync. “Who's at the door, brother mine?” she murmured after a moment in her clear, cold voice, admiring her handiwork.

He turned a crisp page with gentle fingers, then sighed, placing his hand flat against the book, holding it open as he looked up. His chocolate brown eyes flickered and shone a luminous blue, staring into the distance, past Mabel and the walls and the sparse decorations. Through them, he could see everything in an overwhelming radius of space—birds, talons touching down in tender soil and red feathers trembling—a drop of rainwater, trailing over a gutter, a bead of liquid with microscopic dirt and bacteria swirling on its surface—a bee nuzzling into a flower, wings flitting and body twitching—a shuttle of leaves over concrete—a _ring, ring, ring—_

Dipper released a breath he had not meant to hold hostage, immediately refilling his lungs with what he refused to term a gasp. With gritted teeth, he replied, “A _pest,_ dear sister.” A pulse beat out behind his forehead, blood throbbing at his fingertips; opening himself to so much sensory stimuli at once always gifted him with headaches, although they _had_ been getting better with practice. He leaned his head back against the couch cushion, waiting for the pain to subside, as their visitor persisted in ringing the doorbell. Honestly, he wished he had some other method of remote viewing, one not so sweeping and painful, but unfortunately, he did not have the luxury.

Delayed, Mabel voiced an “Oh?” Her tone bade her brother to angle his head slightly, her face coming into view. Contrary to Dipper's expectations, he saw amusement quirk at her lips, an impish delight skirting over her features. He remained deceptively calm, merely watching as his sister pull herself gracefully to her feet. “I'll see to this matter, then. Carry on.”

Oh, yes. His sister knew him best of all, knew he loved to bury himself in his books and his magic and _power._ Each token of knowledge strengthened him, the abyss of latent energy in the pit of his being growing ever larger and larger. It was a satisfying sensation, one which reminded him that he was making daily progress in his studies. But it irked him that she meant to manipulate him, leaving him to read and hone his skills while she went to play with her newest toy. Admittedly, he had far outpaced his sister, as she was more of the schemer, the pragmatist, while he offered the requisite “muscle,” as it were. This pride in his usefulness, however, did little to calm his irritation.

His sister intended to—what, exactly? Her interactions, so far as Dipper had observed, were far too... _friendly_ . Unlike when she fascinated audiences and captured the hearts of townsfolk with her dazzling grin, she seemed truly invested in this Pacifica Northwest, absolutely free of any ulterior motives, and it bothered him to no end. It was a liability, after all. They barely knew anything about the blonde and her cousin, only that she was rather taken with their magic while Gideon was markedly less enthusiastic.

Of course, beyond this logical breakdown of the situation, Dipper confessed, however privately, to a sense of loneliness. His sister relied on him for several things: his magic, his arcane knowledge, and his companionship. She knew she had a friend, an eternal bond of loyalty, in her ever-faithful twin, as did he. She knew he would strive to aid her plans to the fullest extent of his abilities.

But in the end, she did not truly need him. She had the town at her beck and call, and most of everything could be hers if she merely asked. Dipper, meanwhile, needed his sister in a way she truly did not need him. Although he was nearly eighteen already, he had no other friends, no other relationships to speak of. Without her, he was isolated, at the mercy of his own comprehension. He was alone. Yes, he appreciated his books and his magic, and his interest in them was mostly a personal one, but without Mabel, he had nothing to do with it all. He would be a pointless existence.

Mabel, meanwhile, had a multitude of friends who supported her—Grenda, Candy, and now Pacifica, not to mention the entirety of Gravity Falls. She had her own desires, and most had little or nothing to do with the journals. She was still in pursuit of power, but so long as that perceived power was not threatened, she was content to idle. This was something she would never admit to, but a firm truth, from Dipper's perspective. After all, here she was, playing with this _girl—_

And then, it was as though a fog had been lifted. Dipper realized the problem.

It was his own dependence. His own reluctance to act alone.

Hearing the giggles of the blonde girl in the doorway with severe acuity jolted the Pines twin from his thoughts. He could hear Mabel step outside, shutting the door behind her with a sharp thud, as the two continued to walk and talk. He had been staring at his book, unmoving, for quite some time.

A clap punctuated the silence when he snapped it shut. Leaning over the side of the couch, he watched his shadow stretch out across the tile, cast from the light above. It was uncommonly black, starker than a figure against a setting sun. But he didn't mind the abnormality; he was used to it. With a cursory motion, he dropped the leather-bound book into his silhouette. It vanished into the black depths, slipping past its two-dimensional form like a rock through the surface of a lake. It even rippled.

Dipper found himself staring at the little waves, the circles which echoed out from the center of his shadow's chest. He felt stunningly awake, and yet impossibly tired.

There was no use sitting here, he faintly thought after a moment. Better to get out of the house. He hardly left it save for putting on a show or acting out one of Mabel's designs, and it was high time for that to change.

Slowly, as though a baby taking its first steps, he stood on wobbling legs. He leaned down and into his shadow, hand dipping into the oddly warm space, before his hand emerged with another book in hand.

On its cover, a six-fingered hand glinted, the number two inscribed within its borders. Ever since they had discovered the journal, Mabel had fantasized of power and wealth, while Dipper thought of mysteries and oddities, fascinations and _knowledge._ There was so much he had yet to see, hear, _feel._ There were so many things which could alleviate his boredom, occupy his time. The possibilities of the journal, he had thought, were too precious to ignore, and so he and Mabel decided to stay in this wretched town to discover what else there was to gain. Although they'd been mere children upon arrival, they had accomplished so much; first and foremost, establishing the Marquee of Magic had been no easy feat. Later, the real success was in cementing their position as beloved figures of the town, Mabel especially.

As time passed, though, Mabel grew more infatuated with the position of endearment and respect which she had found within the community, while Dipper capitalized on the enormous wealth of insight presiding in the sleepy town. For hours and hours, he pored over books, delighting himself over the magics, both simple and complex, as well as the lore, the myths, the fantastical beings which lived within Gravity Falls. When books were sparse, he studied the creatures of the town in general, a topic which was so full of content that he had yet to drain it completely.

Eventually, however, Dipper realized what he needed, wanted, was not the other journal, but personal research. He wanted to be hands-on. He wanted to see things.

The opportunity had always been there, but he'd been too blind to see it, to even consider it an option. After all, his other half, his dearest partner and friend, his most esteemed sister, would never be willing to journey to the center of the woods, to feel the dirt beneath her heels, the sweat caked on her skin. She was by no means squeamish or jaded by modernity, but she was simply not...interested. She thought her path to power lied within the town itself, among her adoring fans.

And Dipper knew that this, that _she,_ would not change so quickly. No, there was no use to waiting, no use to expecting a companion at all times. Mabel was certainly fine with being on her own.

And this was Dipper's chance to do the same.

-

Several weeks passed without incident.

Mabel did not comment on his wanderings through the woods, and Dipper did not mention her burgeoning infatuation with the young Northwest. But that was not to say that nothing had changed. Something had.

Often, they would not see each other all day, or even for several days, as Dipper preserved his wakefulness with various spells and warded off sleep. If need be, he would hide himself away in a shell, a shadow, an illusion, and allow himself to dream for a few spare hours. He could even stave off hunger and thirst with other minor exercises of magic. Furthermore, he routinely cleaned himself with conjured water or natural pools.

Returning, then, was only a matter of necessity, and this is why they would usually meet up in the Marquee of Magic just before a performance. Mabel would be combing out her hair, removing the little bows and sparkling braids. Dipper would be buffeting his clothes of dirt with a cleansing spell or two, mending rips and tears while idly removing a twig or a leaf from his tousled curls. Neither acknowledged the other's actions. Once finished with their grooming, they would merely look at one another, studying the other's face.

 _The other._ It could not be more fitting for these moments. _The other—_ the faces which had once mirrored each other, identical, but for an obvious birthmark. Later, Dipper outpaced his sister in height, moving past that single millimeter which she had never mentioned but doubtless noted with some small pleasure. His figure grew tall and lithe, slender but cutting, while her curves set in, her features remaining soft while his sharpened. Of course, despite these changes, they could still look at one another and see the clear parallels, almost as though nothing had changed.

But now, this ritual was not like looking in the mirror.

It was like looking at a stranger.

Then the staring would end, both turning away from one another, and they would come out, center stage and theatrics flaring, with a shared grin and a pose and a wave at the crowd.

Every time he saw her, he prepared for Mabel to ask, _what are you doing in the woods?_

He prepared himself to ask, _what are you doing with Pacifica?_

They knew, in that way only twins could know, that both were thinking of one another. And yet, neither question ever left their lips. Instead, they were left with this silence. Even the most trivial small talk proved a challenge, never breaching the stoic air between them. The telepathic link which they had shared since they were ten went unused, unacknowledged, as though it were a stain.

And then they would part ways with nothing having changed.

It felt unnatural, unpleasant, not sharing absolutely everything with his sister, but Dipper was equally glad for the modicum of distance which had grown between them. He felt, in many aspects, freer, happier, though his empty countenance would not betray these choice emotions.

His excitement was understandable, however. Exploring the woods opened his eyes to a variety of things which, admittedly, were much more fascinating in reality than in dusty old books. In fact, the majority of the creatures and places he found had little or nothing to do with the contents of the journal, and he felt more than ever that the book itself was lacking. It was to be expected; as far as he knew, there were only two journals in existence, and not everything could be contained within them.

Regardless, he was enjoying the adventure of it. One day, he peeked in on the playful nymphs who danced through a grove. The next, he stood over a pit on a cliff side and, as if peering into the depths of Hell, he sketched the horde of manticores sleeping there, their great bat wings fluttering in the throes of dreams, human lips pulled back to reveal deadly rows of needled teeth.

Naturally, he ran into trouble occasionally. Not long after his research began, he found a cave full of wolves, each with antlers. Upon discovering him, they attacked, pouncing and running and baring deadly canines. Rather than fighting them,however, which would entail killing the beasts, he instead escaped. 

At another junction, he was even assaulted by a pair of over-sized caterpillars—or at least, that's what he would like to call them, although they were truly much worse. Their carapace was a dark green which emitted illusions and went in and out of sight, and when they twisted into coils, they could roll with tremendous speed. This, he dealt with by gathering them up in spheres of water and dutifully watching as they writhed and drowned, feelers twitching spasmodically before they finally perished. It was difficult to hold them within the bubbles, but forcing the pressure inward succeeding in keeping them still, so Dipper considered it a rather good experience. Unlike the wolves, these insects were absolutely revolting, and he could not imagine leaving them to slink away.

In this sort of rambling way, without any specific plans or guide or intended path, Dipper discovered an invisible dome which, besides shielding its contents from proper view with illusions, also opposed entry. It was strange—as he approached it, a soft lull came to his mind, heady, which whispered at him to turn around, go home, _you're tired, go to sleep._

Shaking off the persuasion was no small task; he swiftly warded himself against the influence and walked on. That was when he reached the hidden wall. Dipper was forced to burn a hole through it to enter, but, regretting the gash he left in his wake, he cast his own magics to fix the breach. It was a curious place, truly remarkable, though he found no mention of it all in the journal.

And the entire space was wondrous, impossibly huge for how small the sphere itself was. He had spanned the circumference of the barrier in roughly a minute, but to circle the space within, it might take several _hours_.

Besides this peculiarity, which was easily explained in any number of ways, it was the environment which stole his breath. The earth, soft and pliant beneath his feet, absolutely brimmed with plant life: great willow trees, sprawling fields of flowers, and gnarled underbrush. It was green and beautiful.

But the captivating environment did not hide the truth; after less than a minute of ardent investigation and fervent note-taking, Dipper realized that something was wrong.

That is, there were hardly any sounds.

Truly—it was practically silent, but for the sound of light wind rustling the branches, shaking the leaves.

The buzz of bees, the caws of birds, the barking and calling of stray wolves and foxes—it was all curiously absent. This, of course, begged questions: how had this place managed to thrive, and continued to do so? How did the plants survive? How did this sort of closed ecosystem _work?_

Somebody, too, must have spread that barrier over the little piece of forest. Why? What were they keeping in here? Just...plants?

With this uncomfortable thought in mind, Dipper continued on. He was confident he could defend himself, if need be, or escape as he had several times before. Furthermore, it was not set in stone that something unsavory was waiting around the corner. In fact, this place was an impressive sort of paradise. Dipper could imagine that, for whatever reason, someone might have cut off this little section of land for privacy, for retirement—even for _vacationing._ Many possibilities were certainly innocent enough. And there _were_ ways to preserve flora and extinguish fauna, ways which someone capable of placing that large barrier would doubtless have been able to employ.

These thoughts did their part in calming him, and after several more minutes of walking, he found a light stream. Within the lazily churning waters, there was not even a single fish. Following it led to a waterfall, and then, at its frothing bottom, a lake, and a titanic one at that. Even from here, he could see the countless piles of miscellaneous objects which clustered around it like debris. It almost looked like a trash dump. Some things had been there so long they were rotted, falling apart, or broken, crushed to pieces. Some things were half buried in the dirt, others still doubtless completely submerged. He saw bits of rusted metal, warped plastic, fogged glass. But he could tell the objects were not the sorts of things that were thrown away.

No, there were swords two feet across, coils of string emitting lackadaisical tunes, sculptures which depicted things he'd never seen before, mirrored plates, vials of powder, orbs of light. The sheer variety was immeasurable, innumerable—no two things were alike.

That is, unless he counted the bodies.

Some were fresh. Some had long since decayed. Some, flesh gone, shone bone white. Others left a carapace. There were shriveled tentacles, rubbery mounds of muscle steeping in pools of opalescent fluid. Insectile creatures lied shrunken and collapsed. Reptiles left only shriveled leather behind.

Strangely, however, the stench he would expect from the carnage was absent. Instead, it smelled, unnervingly, of nothing but the water, like the lake itself had cleansed the air of impurities.

And it was there, in the center of that chaos and death, that Dipper sensed life.

The darkening depths of the lake were beyond the capabilities of the naked eye, but, with a small focusing of energy, he detected a stunning variety of movement, cringing slightly at the overload of information. It was absolutely packed with fish, big and small, though all were deep below the surface, accustomed to extreme pressure.

His senses sunk lower and lower, prodding and gliding over their scales, feeling the lull of their lives beneath his touch. He could not see exact details, only scattered, moving lights of all colors, each of them representing a living creature. But that was still enough to push him forward. The farther he went, the slower his thoughts became, drifting, dreamlike, in the hush of the silent water. Lower, darker—now he was just a little orb of life in an endless expanse of black.

And then a great flare of consciousness drowned out the tiny breadth of his soul.

Dipper's eyes flew open and he immediately took in a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. There was extensive lore and myth focused on magical creatures—monsters, really—who lived in the deepest and most remote of lakes, and _dear Lord,_ that beast clearly had an astounding amount of power contained within it. But Dipper, despite any grandstanding, was no expert on the many, _many_ different organisms which populated the Earth. So, sadly, he was at a remarkable loss.

But what could it be? His curiosity was by no means small. After all, this lake was the only place he had found any semblance of life in, and at its bottom, there was a massive monster, immensely intriguing. Its intimidating presence, however, sent a cold sweat down his back and he hesitated on the methods with which he could investigate. Entering the water would be dangerous; it was comparable to stepping into a tank filled with bloodthirsty sharks with legs bared, merely asking to be maimed, eaten, drowned.

So, that meant he had to learn more from a distance. Carefully, with his heart stuttering in his chest—a sensation he was assuredly unused to—Dipper again delved his mind into the deceivingly still waters. This time, he went slowly, tentative. Further, deeper, and he came again to that overwhelming light, eclipsing his own little body of faint colors in the bed of the lake. The aura fluctuated, shimmered, sending waves of heat and blue and every shade of color imaginable, giving the likeness of a steady flame, or rather a small sun. It was, beneath the powerful light, a vaguely snake-like creature, or so the waxy lines of energy implied. An eel?

Dipper could hardly focus on his conjectures. It was...difficult to describe the feeling of the monster's soul. It was like being pressed against the sandy ground, pushed beyond reality into a state of oblivion, into two dimensions, as it folded him like paper. It was like every single particle which comprised his own light was picked apart, broken up, flung like ashes to the mercy of the waves.

He felt like he was going mad, except it was wonderful.

Suddenly, the longing to show Mabel struck him. Yes—he could imagine the devilish little smile which would perk her lips, jaded gaze lit with the most subtle flickers of warmth, as they viewed the light, this underwater aurora borealis. He could imagine the laugh, that rare and childish and genuine laugh, which would burst from her lips as she lost herself in the fascination and awe of the spectacle. He could imagine her turning to him, and he could feel himself smiling now as he would then, a great and wide smile so different from the small and worn ones he occasionally dredged up, an absolute reverse to the lackluster expression which usually sat on his lips, paired with dulled and heavy-lidded eyes.

He could imagine them being ordinary twins again, even in these extraordinary circumstances.

He could imagine the simple joy of understanding, companionship, adventure.

He could imagine it all.

But Mabel wasn't there.

Mabel was...busy. There were more material things to enjoy. Though Dipper would scorn her for forgetting their true purpose—finding the _journals—_ he could not, because he, too, had lost enthusiasm for the book. No, rather than reading such a dusty and inexpert tome, he could gather his own information and see all manner of phenomena with his own two eyes. He could experience all the wonders the so-called Author might have experienced and more.

But Dipper wanted his sister to be there for it. Thinking this, his chest ached, bringing him back to his perch above the lake. A quick spell numbed the pain there, stilling the water which had begun to pool at his tear ducts. His expression smoothed out, remaining so even as the effects of the spell wore off. It was a simple magic, one which could calm even the most distraught individual, but lasted a very short time. In light of this, by the time the wash of power had faded, his miserable emotions, too, had already gone, like gems in the tide of an ocean shore. His mind turned to other things, and rightly so.

After all, there was a great, terrible shaking in the earth beneath his feet. The waterfall growled in his ears, the sound returning to him with no small amount of haste. The soft dirt beneath his body shuddered and leaped as if alive.

Slowly, his ears pricked at the sound beyond the rushing water.

It was like a thousand twigs breaking at once, snapping in half. Like a clap of low thunder at the horizon.

He could hear it behind him.

Scrambling to his feet, he turned, his blood heating up again, though this time with adrenaline.

Before him, stepping out from the distant tree line, there was a hulking figure at least a hundred feet tall. Limbs rising and falling sluggishly, its black legs breached the pines. Its head was hunched inward, hidden, as it leaned forward. The image, stark in his vision, reminded Dipper, strangely, of an exceedingly tall man entering through a doorway.

But as expected, once through, the creature lifted its head.

It did not turn left or right. It did not scan the landscape or search the ground below. It did not examine everything like a man before a model forest with little plastic trees and paper grass.

No, it faced forward with a solemn certainty.

Through great black hollows, it stared directly at Dipper, as though the hundreds of feet between them were nonexistent.

Then it opened a gaping maw and let out a horrible mess of white noise.

-

Certainly, Dipper was surprised at how quickly his pursuer caught up. It had seemed so far away. Standing there, Dipper had immediately thought to leave, to teleport to his home on the outskirts of town. He envisioned the building in the black of his eyelids, willing himself to _be_ there.

But it didn't work. With a slight buzz of panic, Dipper realized the problem: the barrier. He was a fool for thinking it would allow him to leave when he had entered so rudely.

And so he ran. He dashed into the woods from which he came, thinking he might hide below the canopy. He planned to run until he reached the edge of the barrier, to leave as he had entered. If there was a way to escape without directly confronting the ligneous titan at his heels, then he would much prefer it.

But here he was, still sprinting at full tilt.

And there was the towering wooden man, still hot on his heels. It didn't even attempt to run—whether or not that was possible at its size, he wasn't certain—but instead walked leisurely after him, overcoming great stretches of land in single strides.

Eventually, Dipper thought, he _had_ to reach the outskirts of the barrier. The dome was large, but after so much time, surely he was coming closer? Scoping out his surroundings required time, concentration, and absolute stillness, none of which were available to him. It was like he was running blind. He could be running in circles. 

As if the world agreed, he heard the sound of roaring water.

His heart leaped into his throat, and he broke out from the trees. Sleeves smeared with dirt and torn from stray branches broke out into the open air, the gleaming sunshine.

He was at the foot of the waterfall, standing at the shores of the great lake.

Behind him, a beast of the land.

Before him, a beast of the water.

The earth rumbled, the water rippling with the force. He clenched his fingers together, heart palpitating in his rib cage, chirping like a songbird. The woodsman released another wail of static, drowning out all else as it neared.

A swear hissed from his lips, and he dove into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> marquee: a large tent used for social or commercial functions.
> 
> hehe, it's a British word, apparently. 
> 
> Of course, I wanted to think of the Reverse Falls alternative to the Tent of Telepathy, but seeing as Mabel and Dipper didn't spy on the townsfolk and couldn't pull this stunt off, I decided to make it the Marquee of Magic. Still made use of that wonderful alliteration.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was mainly for setting the foundation, which is never--for me, anyway--the shining star of the story. Hope you like the other chapters better. From what I've wrote so far, I definitely do. :P
> 
> See you in a week! (Probably)
> 
> P.S. this chapter is a bit longer than I generally aim for. Most of them will probably be no more than 4000 words, but there's one I've written that's 6000, so...eh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Sorry for the tremendous delay! Maybe I shouldn't have set the update schedule for the first day of school...cough. 
> 
> This is, in my opinion, sort of a getting-things-in-order chapter...sort of...

Dipper was five years old when he discovered magic. He sat with legs crossed before the television, a young Mabel at his side. On the screen before their watching eyes, a man lifted a hand and made a woman levitate, spin in circles, turn on a dime and twirl across the spotlight of the stage. Her dress fluttered and whirled, her blonde hair spinning, as the man splayed his fingers and smiled, saying, “Magic is more than a trick of the light. It's a dream...”

It was not _real_ magic, of course.

But at the time, it was wonderful. Fantastic.

Dipper stared with rapt eyes. Mabel brushed shoulders with him and murmured, “Magic." Her voice was small and sullen but there was a slight lilt to her lips as she hugged her knees, an energy in the tautness of her arms.

Dipper looked at his twin, and then back at the screen. Although his attention returned to the wondrous feats on display, a fraction of it pulled back, an ear opened to the silence of the house, searching for signs of movement. When the latest fosters woke up, they would likely scold the twins for waking up early, for turning on the television, for any number of minor infractions which served only as an outlet to a wide-sweeping dissatisfaction.

The second the twins entered a home, a package deal, there was a toll of disappointment. All prospective families thought Dipper was, at best, intelligent but unsociable, and that Mabel was simply distrustful, but many thought the worst: that he and his sister were problem children, unlovable, that he would always be mute, and that Mabel, morose and glum-faced, would always stick to her silent brother like glue. _Defective products,_ they would think. _Where's the return address?_

But now, right now, none of that mattered. They were alone. In the room lit only by the roiling colors of the television, ears filled with its droning hum, he opened his mouth. “Magic,” he whispered back.

And then his mind reeled and they were ten, and their newest pair of foster parents had died, run into the deepest bowels of a lake with their car, sinking underneath the cover of a new moon. The policewoman who found them wandering the side of the road, however, was unaware any such incident had occurred.

Dipper clutched his sister's hand and watched, indifferent, as the officers tried to figure things out. She laced her fingers through his, their palms yet tiny and childlike.

But in between their palms, impossibly warm, a pair of blue amulets knocked against one another, bundled up in black ribbons.

They hadn't let go of each other's hands since the policewoman picked them up, and even now, they sat side by side next to another officer's desk, fingers still tightly laced together. It was a small room with only three desks; it was so tiny that, with the four of them, two of them children, the space felt almost cramped.

Mabel had never liked enclosed spaces, not since many fosters ago. Claustrophobia. Outwardly, they watched the two remaining officers work with vacant, listless eyes, calm as statues.

But inwardly, emotions were wired tautly between them, each twinge of anxiety streamlined directly to the other twin's head. _When can we leave?_ Mabel's whisper drifted into the space between his thoughts, restless, uncomfortable.

 _Soon,_ he thought, clutching the amulet in his palm, almost scalding hot now, as though fire swirled in the crux of the gem. Dipper, too, was impatient.

“Come here for a sec,” the policewoman said, all of a sudden, waving her partner over. He was a broad man with a stern face, and when he stood, he gave the two young twins a glance in passing. Their eyes trailed with him, waiting for an opportunity, a _perfect_ one. Mabel was tired of waiting, of being questioned, implored, but she knew: they had to get them both _together._

“Look,” she said with a sigh, low voice just barely reaching Dipper's ears. “You need to get those kids to open up. We need to know their names, at least."

“You think it's that easy? Maybe you should go talk to them,” the other muttered, then sighed, rubbing a hand over tired eyes. "Already called Jackie, anyway. She'll figure out what to do with them in the meantime..."

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a glance as the two spoke a moment longer, looking at the sobriety mirrored on the other's face. He clenched both of his hands tighter. One was soaked though with heat.

The other, cold, as it clutched an over-sized red book.

Mabel's eyes were quiet, soft, as she looked over at her brother. Her voice resounded in his ears: _Now._

He took a breath, nodding. He'd practiced. He just had to...

The woman turned back to her desk, biting her lip. Unbeknownst to the two officers, a hefty monitor lifted gently off the only desk at their backs, an arctic blue radiating around it. Dipper concentrated, Mabel's own effort melding with his, and together, they crashed it down with exponential force into the man's legs, a short scream leaving his mouth at the sudden shattering of his shin bones. The splintered tissue failed to support his weight, and he stumbled backwards, arms cartwheeling, before his skull cracked against a desk. His pained and panicked expression went slack, thick red blood spilling from the wound.

In this short span of time, the spent monitor had dropped to the floor and the woman had startled to her feet and reached, instinctively, for her holster, turning, all in one smooth motion. Her eyes fell to her incapacitated partner, at the weak breaths which leaked from his throat, and the bloodied mass of plastic and glass at her feet.  Measures of shock, confusion, and alarm cycled through her gaze before it darted around the room. For that single moment, she had forgotten about the two twins sitting idly not ten feet away, worried instead about the vector of attack. Where was the person who had assaulted them? Where had they gone?

She never saw the monitor crashing at her head. Before her body even hit the ground, joining that of her partner, everything in the tiny room lifted into the air. The same ethereal blue surrounded all of the air-born objects before they were again cast down, and harshly at that. Picture frames shattered. Printers broke open at the seams, showered with the glass of exploding light bulbs. Desks splintered, drawers spilling out their contents. The eyes of the twins glowed the same overpowering shade, light leaking out from their closed palms.

And then it was painfully silent once more.

Dipper's hand squeezed hers, watching as blood pooled. Together, they stood, eyes black in the oppressive darkness of the room. _Gravity Falls,_ she said, after a moment. _That's where the author of that book lived._

He thought of the amulets, the power they held, the possibilities of what lay within the scrawled text—these thoughts and more mingled with Mabel's, hers charged with energy, pure want.

 _That's where our power is,_ she thought intently at him, gaze still focused on his, daring him to disagree.

But Dipper only set off, unquestioning, and they walked silently from the station, hand in hand.

-

Dipper's lungs were going to burst.

His eyes snapped open, the sight of lake water clouding his vision. With wakefulness, he immediately opened his lips to breathe, only to cough out bubbles of whatever air remained in his chest. When had he fallen asleep? Where was he?

The barrier.

The chase.

The lake.

His head pounded, thoughts dazed and incoherent, as he looked left and right, up, down, feeling himself sinking even as he hurriedly swam towards the light. The light—yes. He broke the surface, hair flat against his face and obscuring his birthmark, as his lips parted, lungs soaring with a sharp gasp as he inhaled as much oxygen as he could. His heart shook, heavy, against his ribs.

“Oh, what the—where did you come from?” A man shouted. Dipper glanced towards the source of the sound, blinking water from his eyes like a drowned rat.

Then he realized he was surrounded by boats, some crowded with fishermen, some with couples, others with families. All in his vicinity turned to gape at him when he surfaced, others even farther away angling their necks at the sudden commotion. A cough erupted from his throat, drops of water spewing out from a heaving chest. He blinked, his voice thin when he spoke: “I-I-I—” Dear God, he was stammering, teeth chattering. The cold soaked deep into his skin, even though the water around him was warm with sun. Wrapping his arms around himself, he shivered, feeling all the more pitiful and indignant at the vulnerable situation he had found himself in.

“For God's sake, Pete, we've seen stranger things. Let the boy up,” a gruff voice interrupted, and a rope was thrown down. He grabbed onto it with uncommonly weak hands, shuddering still when the warm water sloughed off his frigid skin and steeped clothes, exposing him to the chill of the morning air. The second the rope had lifted a good five feet into the air, a pair of arms reached down and lifted his form with startling ease. "You okay, boy?"

Dipper looked at the aged face and nodded, leaning tiredly against the railing.

“Huh,” murmured the blonde man, Pete, scrutinizing him.

Dipper felt the faintest flares of irritation at the staring. But before he could act on it, a strong bout of wind cut through him, chilling him to the marrow. He looked down at his painfully wet clothes, worn and split open, as he trembled. Clenching his jaw in the hopes to stop the annoying clatter of his teeth together, he asked, “D-D-Do you h-have a t-towel?”

“Sure, sure,” the man who'd pulled him up said, starting off down the deck of the ship and going below, down a small hatch.

Meanwhile, Pete came closer, inspecting him carefully. “What were you doing in the water?” Unbidden went the question of _where did you come from?_

Dipper merely shook his head with a sigh, slicking back his hair. He noticed the other man staring at the pseudo-asterism there but didn't deign it with any attention, merely muttering, “I was m-merely practi-ti-cing for an—an upcoming sh-show.”

Normally, considering the great lengths Mabel and Dipper underwent to impress their collective audience, such an explanation would not necessitate the bat of an eye. But instead, the man furrowed his brows, confusion and suspicion written all over his face, and Dipper wondered what exactly he had said wrong. Did the man not recognize him? No, impossible. He was clearly a resident here, and no one in town was ignorant of their Marquee.

But Pete did not question him further, and Dipper decided it was of little consequence, instead looking up at the sound of the man returning, large white towel in hand. He threw the rough material over, and Dipper caught it gracefully, giving a small nod of thanks before winding it tight around himself. The second the dozens of bystanders stopped looking, he'd cast a spell for warmth. The mere thought of it calmed him slightly, and he looked up to face the man head on. Was he the supposed captain of this little fishing boat? Well, it probably wasn't Pete. After a moment of staring furtively up at him, he inquired, “W-Would you...be w-willing...”

The other gave a taut smile before he finished forcing out the question. “It won't be any trouble to drop you off at the shore.”

Dipper closed his eyes a moment, reflecting on the stoic expression he held, before opening them with a practiced smile, light and gentle. “Th-thank you,” he replied, before leaning back against the rail of the ship, hugging his knees to his chest and lowering his head, holding in all his warmth for the moment.

Inwardly, he racked his mind for answers. This, doubtless, was Lake Gravity Falls. It was undeniable. The lake was bordered on three sides by cliffs, and there, on the shoreline, he could see the familiar venues. But this made little logical sense. He'd been in the woods, in that strange enclosed area, with those impossible creatures. He had waded into the water—in seconds, it reached up to his waist—and then a great shadow came over him.

When he looked back, he saw hollows staring down at him.

And through the water, jostling his submerged body, an odd current rushed...

But after that, he couldn't remember. It was as though he had fallen asleep; certainly, the sensation of appearing in this lake could not be compared to anything but waking up in the morning. That abrupt emergence of consciousness, as though he had just been dreaming.

Another gust of ice disrupted his thoughts and, grimacing, he decided now was as good a time as any. In the cage of his limbs, the blue glow of his eyes lit the darkness as a comforting warmth seeped into his skin. After sensing this opportunity, waiting for the attention to die down seemed a poor alternative. Feeling the satisfying heat wash over him was soothing, seeping into him like the warmth of a fireplace; as the cold left, a leaden sleepiness took its place.

He didn't notice, in his exhaustion, that Pete was watching him with uncertainty. He knew the Pines twins: Dipper and Mabel. Everyone in town had heard of them or met them at some point; they'd been visiting Gravity Falls since they were twelve, after all.

But the boy before him was...different. He had a colder expression, a harsh gleam to his eyes, hawkish, predatory, even as he sat in a position of weakness. His clothes, too, were completely unusual for the younger twin, who much preferred simple and unassuming outfits. But here he was, decked out in a tailored blue button-down and slacks, not to mention the odd blue amulet. At the small piece of jewelry, Pete squinted, certain he'd seen it somewhere before, although he couldn't quite place it.

And, most oddly, he didn't attempt to hide his birthmark at all. Pete had only heard about it from a long chain of gossip tracing back to Soos, the handyman at the Mystery Shack, who had mentioned it offhandedly. It was a well-known fact that Dipper was reluctant to expose his namesake, going so far as to wear the pine tree trucker hat at all times, tucking chocolate curls over his forehead. He was shocked to see it, and without any care on Dipper's part at all. In fact, where _was_ his signature hat? That, too, drew an eye.

Of course, these details alone were not entirely suspect. Perhaps Dipper had learned to accept his birthmark not as a source of shame but as a mere set of marks he had been born with. Perhaps, on this occasion, Dipper happened to be wearing a different style of clothing. Maybe he had lost his hat. Maybe the amulet was normally out of sight, hidden under the collar. Maybe he had a bad day, and was a little less sociable for it. Maybe there was nothing wrong at all, and everything that seemed suspect was merely a culmination of coincidences and misunderstandings.

It was a lot of maybes, but maybes weren't uncommon in Gravity Falls.

Pete could even go ahead and tell himself nothing was wrong, if that was all there was to it.

But that wasn't all there was.

Dipper had mentioned an “upcoming show,” as though it were a trivial, obvious thing; his dismissive tone implied that Pete, and anyone else, for that matter, should have no need for more convincing, or any further explanation on what, exactly, he was talking about. But Dipper Pines was not, by any means, a performer. In contrast to his outgoing and upbeat sister, he was more reserved, hidden away in the Shack or else on solo explorations. So what was he talking about?

If the Pines twin had just written off his appearance in the lake as an attempt to find the gobblewonker, then there would be no questions. After all, although its last appearance several years ago had been a fraudulent one by the whims of McGucket, that was not to say it didn't exist, and many still looked for traces of its presence. But instead, he'd used an excuse which was not only confusing, but, along with all the other inconsistencies, unnerving as well.

As they neared the shore, Dipper's loose limbs slowly firmed, and he stood, his clothes strangely almost-dry. Where before, his skin had been white and wet, now it was pink and dry. His nose, as usual, had the lightest dusting of red; seeing this, Pete sought to smother his paranoid doubts. When looking at the boy's familiar face, practically at home here, it was difficult to think that something was amiss.

But then the twin's eyes lifted and met the blonde's, freezing him in place.

For just a moment, he thought they were a spectral blue.

They came up at the pier, the water deep enough that their boat did not touch the lake floor. “We're here,” the captain said, and Dipper smiled. It was a wonderful smile, soft and grateful, boyish and self-deprecating, but to Pete, it could not have been more out of place on his lips.

“Thank you,” he said. With quiet steps, he left the vessel and traveled down the promenade, leaving the boat to set off once again. Pete watched the boardwalk all the way, thinking that he might call Stan later, just to be sure nothing was wrong.

-

Walking down into the center of the town, Dipper worked to restore his appearance, immediately drying himself for good, as well as neatly pressing its hair into its usual part, revealing half of the birthmark there. He mostly ignored the stares on him, besides giving the occasional smile—Mabel always told him he had to cultivate friendly relations with the townsfolk.

 _Considering how close she is to Pacifica, she should write a book about it,_ he thought bitterly to himself, but sighed nonetheless at his childish griping, proceeding to mend the torn fabric and cast out the dirt and grime. This was certainly an interesting incident, now wasn't it; perhaps there was a portal of some sort in the lake, or maybe it somehow bled into Lake Gravity Falls through warped space. Both possibilities would neatly explain the outcome, but they didn't feel quite right.

After all, in both scenarios, could the underwater beast not simply leap at will to the edge of the town? Dipper would have noticed this peculiarity, the great kaleidoscope of power, had this been the case. No, it seemed the creature did not, or could not, appear as he had. He and Mabel had frequented the lake many times and had seen naught but the gobblewonker, idling at its bottom.

Then again, the colossal eel did have an overwhelming amount of energy. It was possible that it alone was to blame for this incident.

If that was the case, he thought, then further study was in order. He could return to the dome and search again through its depths. But the dual threats of the two hulking beasts did little to encourage the idea in his mind. The wooden man, despite its lack of great magical power, was terrifying due to its sheer size and strength. On the other hand, the eel slumbering in the depths of the lake posed greater dangers. The environment was, for starters, a great disadvantage if evasion was necessary, slowing him down as well as being unfamiliar. Then there was, again, its sheer size. Invading its home a second time, disturbing its peace, might spell his death. Without teleportation as a means of escape, entering the barrier at all, much less the lake, would be extremely unsafe.

But Dipper was nothing if not a tad prideful. It would do nicely to make preparations, because surely there were things which would ensure his success. He would have to return to his and Mabel's house.

Thinking this, he turned left and right, spotting a thin alleyway at his side. Swiftly spinning on a heel, he immediately went into it, envisioning their living room.

But, as his footfalls echoed against the tight brick walls, he could not manage to teleport, despite the clarity with which he pictured their house. Kneading a hand at the bridge of his nose in frustration, he thought instead of the street on which they lived, the green sign before his mind's eye.

In a split second, the air had changed. The sounds of the busy afternoon had blipped out of existence. They had chosen a rather secluded property, after all. Opening his eyes, he found himself in the grass at the head of the street and, with a purse of his lips, he began walking.

In moments, he had reached his house.

Or rather, the plot where his house _should_ have been.

Staring with disbelief, he forgot to breathe.

In its place, there was a little two-story cottage. It was light blue, or had been at some point. The shutters were splintered, the glass panes behind them shattered. The tall stone fountain in the front yard was toppled over, and the cheap wrought iron fence preceding the walkway up to the front door was rusted, black paint flaking off it.

Of course, though it had been some time, his memory had not failed him: it was the same house, albeit damaged, which had once sat there five years ago, before Mabel and Dipper had arrived and broke it into scrap, building their own little castle from the ground up. A little memory charms here and mind control there, and it was done in just a few months.

But here it was again. A token to times long passed, erased, _destroyed_.

Dipper, as though coming to himself from a dream, took a deep, calming breath. His fingers trembled as he reached up, uncertainty guiding his hand, but anger, rage, made blue fire spark and light over the entire fence, fading when he inhaled sharply once more.

With a swallow, he stepped forward. As he passed onto the property, a spot of faint color caught his eye, and he glanced down to see a great white billboard which had fallen to the ground, leaving an indent in the earth. Though the mud tried its damnedest to smother the words, he could make out the heavy letters:

HOME OF Li'L GiDEON

Next to the text, there was a washed-out picture of a boy, perhaps less than ten years old, with a high-rise of white hair and freckles dotting his merry cheeks. Dipper could not forget that face; it had hardly changed over the years, still rounded and tubby. The picture did little more than reinforce the fact that, no, it was _not_ a different Gideon.

It was Gideon Gleeful, cousin to Pacifica Northwest.

There he was, clad in a trim blue suit jacket. And at his collar sat an amulet which Dipper had known for years. Still gazing dazedly at the picture, he reached up to clutch an identical amulet—the one wrapped around his neck.

“What the hell,” he whispered. _Gideon_ lived here? _Had_ lived here? But not anymore? Where was he now? Better yet, where was Dipper? God, this was all kinds of fucked up.

Feeling a deep-seated dread clutch coldly at his heart, he closed his eyes, concentrating once more. _Mabel,_ he chanted, reactivating the link which had long been neglected. _Mabel, Mabel, Mabel—_

But there was no response. It was as if she had dropped off the face of the Earth.

Or, it occurred to him, it was as if _he_ had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yeah, no, really, though. Sorry about being late. I hate missing deadlines. Makes me feel like a scrub.  
>  More to come! >:D
> 
> Also thank you for the kudos! I love those things! (On a completely unrelated note, fans of Gravity Falls, did you ever see that deleted scene with Bill? I never really looked into stuff like that but seriously, it was so funny...)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's been a week? Yeah. Welp, here ya go. ;)

Dipper was lying in the shade, trucker hat drawn low over his eyes as he slept. It had been a long day, what with Grunkle Stan constantly supplying him with a new task the second he got a breath. First it was cleaning the windows, then sweeping the floors, cleaning the wood by hand, tidying up the stock, numbering items, pricing things—exorbitantly, as Stan recommended—and giving a few stray tourists quick little tours while the man was busy buying stuff from the grocery store.

All in all, the biggest break he had was when Stan had been gone buying milk and eggs, because he finished up the tours relatively quick and had time to relax, a momentary reprieve from receiving another responsibility.

Mabel, on the other hand, was given simple little jobs. Manning the register, enthusiastically advertising one knick-knack or another, and so on. Dipper would, as he had five summers ago, complain of favoritism, bullying, but he had to admit all the running around, even for the most menial of tasks, had shaped him up pretty nicely over the years.

Of course, running and screaming from the monster of the week helped, too.

Besides, if he _had_ been assigned Mabel's jobs, he probably wouldn't have been very good at them. His social skills had grown, but he was nowhere near the level of pushing products and making revenue. No, while Dipper got Stan's supposed heart, Mabel definitely got his aptitude for conning. If she were a force for evil, no one would be safe.

Dipper fell asleep with these thoughts churning in his head and dreamed of Mabel slashing wallets and Stan blabbering chores. Tying shoes, doing the lamby-lamby dance...each task was stranger than the last.

But then he felt a nudge on his shoulder and startled awake, instinctively rolling away from the touch and mumbling, “Grunkle Stan, what...”

“It's Mabel!” the girl rebuked, crouching down to poke him in the chest. “Dipper, wake up, come on...”

“Ugh.” Dipper rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “What? What is it?”

“Is there anything about doppelgangers in the journal?”

That destroyed the last vestiges of sleep which lingered in his head, and he sat up abruptly, ignoring the aftershocks of vertigo. “Doppelgangers, Mabel? How do you even know what those are?”

“You remember the movie—Invasion of the People Who Look Like You? It was practically our childhood.” Then Mabel shook her long hair, tugging at her pink sweater. “But that's not the point. I mean, _is_ there?”

“No.” Then, after a pause, he craned his neck up at her, squinting at the sun perched behind her hair. “Why?”

“Well, one of Grunkle Stan's fishing friends called, but he was busy watching _Drama of our Lives_ , so I answered. And he said...well, he said he saw you out in the lake today. And, well, we both know you were here, so...” She looked uncharacteristically nervous. “Do you think it was the shapeshifter?”

At the whispered question, his mind flashed back to the creature in the bunker, his twelve-year-old face twisted with horror and despair as it opened its mouth and screamed. Blinking the image from his eyes, he shook his head. “He couldn't have gotten out. We froze him.”

“I don't think it was a case of mistaken identity, Dipper,” Mabel said solemnly. “ He had your birthmark and everything.”

Despite the beat his heart skipped at the statement, Dipper remained silent, laying his head back to stare up at the sky. Mabel pressed her skirt flat and plopped down next to her brother, adamantly staring at him with her brows furrowed.

He was weak to serious-Mabel and bit his lip, relenting: “Wendy said she's free tomorrow. We could maybe ask Soos and just...go check on it. In the bunker. Right?”

Mabel immediately brightened, the tension in her shoulders slipping. “Sounds like a plan, brobro.” She collapsed at his side, letting out a great breath into the air. “If it's not that creep, then maybe we'll have a new mystery twin! I mean, think about the possibilities. We could have two of you around the house! One of you could do the chores, and the other could go exploring.”

“I'd hate to be the one doing the cleaning,” Dipper retorted, entertaining her silliness. But inside his chest, nerves prickled as he thought about the supposed sighting of another him. If not the shapeshifter, then what? Were there really such things as doppelgangers? In stories, those spelled death for someone, didn't they?

Stewing over other scenarios, his mind drifted to the copy machine. But no, he'd never touched that thing after the initial fiasco. Maybe it was an illusion, then. A monster which could make you see things, impossible things.

“Mabel,” he whispered, “what exactly did Stan's caller say?”

She pushed her hair out of her face, thinking back to the exact conversation. “Well,” she breathed, “the...the other Dipper came out of the lake. And he was wearing formal stuff—like a button-down and slacks.” Instilling a bit of humor into the situation, she lightly punched his arm. “Completely unlike you, might I add. Anyway, he wanted to go to the shore, so the boat took him to the pier. And he had...” Here, she pursed her lips, seemingly reluctant to speak.

“What, Mabel?” His voice was hushed, not imbued with irritation at her hesitance but instead disquiet. The traces of sun on his skin felt cold, muted, when she spoke.

“He had on an amulet,” she finally admitted. “A blue amulet. It was tied up with black ribbon.”

Dipper could not help the disbelief that contorted his expression when his head whipped to regard her. Her face was pale in the withering light. “An amulet,” he echoed. “Like Gideon's? But we broke it.”

She merely lifted her shoulders, the fabric of her sweater rubbing against the grass.

He bit his lip yet again, an unfortunate habit, and broke the skin—the metallic sting of blood filled his mouth, overly acute for how tiny the split must've been. Forcing himself to press on, he murmured, “But what happened then, when they reached the pier?”

Mabel turned onto her side, arms curled up at her chest. “He got off the boat and went into town.”

“Into town?” His voice was hoarse. “Mabel, if it _is_ the shapeshifter, then...we'll never be able to trust anybody.”

Mabel, seeing his panic, gave a strained smile, reached out to clutch her twin's hand. “Well, Dipping sauce,” she said after a moment, “then it's time for some optimism! Maybe the fisherman was wrong. And if he wasn't, we'll be checking out the bunker first thing in the morning. At least then we'll have an idea of what we're up against.” She swallowed and gave a bright grin, teeth freed of braces and gleaming white in the fading daylight. “Besides, when it looked like Wendy, you figured it out, and we'll do it again. Whether it's that creep or not, it'll turn out fine, like it always has. Right, brobro?”

She pulled him up into a sitting position and threw her arms open, awaiting a hug. He huffed out a hint of laughter and leaned into the embrace, tentatively wrapping his arm around the fluffy material. “Right, Mabel,” he mumbled back.

Closing his eyes, he hoped she was right.

 

-

 

From his perch in a tree, Dipper watched the two figures splayed out before the Mystery Shack.

One of them, as he saw it, was Mabel.

But it was a very different Mabel than the one he was accustomed to.

She was giggly and full of smiles—genuine ones, which were just slightly too wide and obnoxious—and wore the most _casual_ of sweaters, pink and soft, with a shooting star stitched into the front. She was optimistic, encouraging, enthusiastic. Rather than looking to garner power and control the townspeople of Gravity Falls, she was relaxed, seeming to prefer helping out her brother over any manipulative deeds. Dipper felt a sour taste in his mouth when he realized she was acting like... _Pacifica,_ of all people.

Of course, her brother, despite sharing his face, could not be more different.

He was invested in mysteries and supernatural phenomena, no doubt, but that's where the similarities ended, or so Dipper saw it. He wore sloppy worn shorts and an old red T-shirt, not to mention the uncouth trucker hat, detailed with a pine tree, which sat over messy brown curls. And even at this distance, with a little bit of sensory enhancement, Dipper could unfortunately tell he hadn't showered or bathed in several days. If he were an ordinary child who stayed at home all day or else performed no strenuous activities, perhaps it wouldn't be quite so bad, but it was obvious from the smell of leaves and dirt and sweat that this Dipper Pines frequented the forest and did a fair amount of exercise.

The hat, however, gained his fixation for several moments. It was the same hat Gideon always wore—no wonder he disliked his double so much already. He watched the other Dipper Pines with ice in his eyes. To think, in this other world, he and Mabel were these ridiculous sorts, fumbling in the dark, unknowing of how vast their ignorance was.

Unfortunately, Dipper grudgingly admitted that despite any differences, his double was as invested in his sister as he was in his own Mabel, the _real_ Mabel. The openness they shared, however, went to lengths which Dipper had found difficult recently. While in his own world, the twins had been growing apart, here, they seemed closer than ever. It made a slight jealousy rouse in his blood; although the twins here were inferior individuals, their bond was superior to his own.

But most important was their conversation. _The journal._ They had a journal with them. If _these_ twins had a journal, did this mean the Pacifica and Gideon of his world had one as well? For all these years? It would explain why Gideon was so suspicious of them; Dipper had thought he possessed a spare bit more of intelligence than the rest of Gravity Falls, not so enamored with parlor tricks. But no, the journal he'd found must have made him quite paranoid of their magical talent. When he returned, he'd be sure to damage their memories irreparably and steal that damned book.

He might have studied the alternate twins more, but not two minutes into his observation, as the sky dimmed, they leapt to their feet in tandem and went together into the Shack. At first, he had no idea why, so focused he was on the two of them. Pulling back, he heard a shout: “Dipper! Mabel! Get inside, it's getting dark.”

His skin, for a second, seemed to catch fire, but the prickles at his skin quickly faded. He would recognize that voice anywhere—it was Stanford Pines, their great uncle. _Grunkle,_ according to the goofy Mabel Pines.

And, if his eyes and ears weren't deceiving him, that was the man himself in the door to the Mystery Shack, waving at the kids to come in. So, just as he'd expected, that meant _these_ Pines lived with the old fool, rather than Pacifica and Gideon. Of course, those two dolts had been dropped off by their parents, friends of Stanford, for every summer since Gideon was nine and Pacifica was twelve. But where were they now? Gideon had obviously been here at some point. But Pacifica? Dipper hadn't seen her at all.

Regardless, peering vigilantly at the man, he pushed his senses through the walls as the two twins passed into the threshold and shut the door behind them. The TV was on, blaring a soap opera, and the two were moving to sit with their Grunkle. Mabel plopped down on his left side, leaning forward to watch the program. Dipper, meanwhile, settled on his right.

But he wasn't interested in the poor medium of entertainment. No—he reached into his vest and pulled out a very, _very_ familiar tome. A red journal, mildly dirtied and torn, with a gleaming gold hand on its cover, six fingers held rim-rod straight. The number three, unassuming, was placed on its palm.

Dipper couldn't help but widen his eyes, as though it had any bearing on how much information he could gather. A _third_ journal? He spent a terse moment obsessively combing over the book from all directions, closed though it was. So, then, there were three volumes in total, if not more. He grit his teeth, ignoring the urge to slap himself in the face. He'd been a fool to assume there were only two.

However, while he had this opportunity...zeroing in on the journal in his double's hands, he hovered over his shoulder. His expectancy was well-placed, as, not a second later, Dipper balanced the sizable book on his knees and opened the front cover.

But before his double even flipped the first page, he rumbled around in his pocket and pulled out...a blacklight? Focus glued to the scene before him, he watched as the light cascaded over the text, revealing hidden words and diagrams. He'd never known there to be additional content in the journals, but he'd never really checked. Swearing under his breath, he vowed to confirm this whenever he had a spare moment.

Right now, however, he had to devote all of his faculties on the book before him, swiftly memorizing each page as the other Dipper flicked past them. Some he lingered on; others, he bypassed without a second thought. Likely, the fool was poring over the journal, looking for any explanation of how a look-alike could have appeared.

Of course, many pages caught his invisible watcher's eye. More assorted creatures, as usual—stomach-faced ducks, the purported hide-behind, and all else. Nothing that truly astounded him. The most irritating detail was the heavy use of ciphering and codes, much more than within the second volume—it merely illustrated the fact that the Author had been losing the vestiges of his sanity. Well, no matter.

After almost a minute of this tentative page-turning, his interest peaked slightly at a depiction of a tree with, in invisible ink, a spiraling descent into a hidden facility below. It was likely the bunker the twins had been speaking of before—and it contained a shapeshifter, no less. He would have to check that out later, too.

But then, after a flurry of pages on gnomes and vampire bats, his double stopped, lips flattening as he peered especially hard at a particular page.

Bill Cipher.

He raised an eyebrow, peering at the detailed figure: an all-black triangle with pencil-thin arms and legs, a single expressive eye staring knowingly out of the page. It was decidedly demonic, but that was what it was, or so the page said—a dream demon, entering heads and dispensing chaos. The page, even with this distant spectating, reeked of blood, dried and flaking from the paper.

Of course, after seven years of staring at his own journal, he recognized the basic shape at once. It was an unnamed creature in his own book, with details on how to summon it, but due to how much information was lacking, and how little could be found out about the creature by investigating, Dipper had wisely decided to forgo following the book's instructions. It would not do to bungle himself with contracts and demons, not until he was prepared.

But here was the revised summation, with more details, albeit coded and splattered with viscous fluids. The Author seemed adamant, and likely with good reason, that this was a triangle not to be trusted. It probably didn't help that it was a near-omniscient being that kept a close eye on the town, only encouraging his paranoic tendencies.

“Paranoic tendencies, huh, kid,” came a grating voice at his ear. “Those are big words for a fake Pine Tree.”

 _What?_ Dipper leaped from the tree branch with a practiced motion, landing quickly on his feet and turning around. He tried to focus on the dark of the woods, searching for who had spoken, but shock struck him at the sight of the monochromatic world before him, lacking all color. “What the...”

“First time in the Mindscape, right?”

Dipper's head jerked in the direction of the sound: behind him. Breathing down his neck—metaphorically, of course—was a towering golden triangle, a wide eye staring at him, long arms reaching out as if to pull him into a hug. Dipper jumped a foot back. “Yeesh!” the other said, despite his lack of a mouth. “You two are practically mirror images! Except for the get-up. Where's the hat?”

Pressing his lips flat, Dipper crossed his arms and gave the demon a venomous glare. “I don't _own_ a hat. And as far as I'm concerned, I'm the real Dipper Pines. What do you want, Bill Cipher?”

He tipped his hat in mock greeting. “No need to get testy about your parallel existence!” the triangle chortled, sliding through the air and circling around him like a shark. “But you're right—I want to help you out. If you're anything like the Pine Tree I know, you're completely and utterly invested in Shooting Star! And you look a little lost. Want me to take you home in exchange for your eternal servitude?” Blue fire danced over his fingertips, drawing Dipper's eye for a moment; it was the same color of the flames which he always conjured.

But Dipper calmed and shook his head of the needless observation, instead focusing on the offer itself. Shooting Star? If the Pine Tree was Dipper, then that nickname was likely delegated to Mabel. Putting two and two together, it was like the demon was asking if he wanted directions, much too flippant for the matter at hand. “No, thank you,” he said after a moment. “The price is rather steep.”

“So polite,” the other remarked, suddenly zipping closer to stare straight into his eyes. “But I would never make a deal you're not willing to pay for. That's bad business.” Dipper restrained the instinctual need to back away, to duck out of sight. “But if we're gonna be friends, you need a name!”

“I have a—”

“Maybe I'll call you...” Bill snapped his fingers, the sharp noise reverberating like a clap of thunder through his ears. The boy grimaced, irritated further by the mirth which crinkled the demon's eye at his wince. “...well, I'll call you _Dipper,_ how about it?”

“...That _is_ my name,” the teenager noted in a condescending tone.

“Ha! I like your cheek, kid,” Bill said, floating up and away, out of his personal space. “But you've got the Big Dipper! On your _face!_ And you sure don't mind it as much as Pine Tree does. His hat defines his insecurity, you know.”

Dipper shook his head, withholding a sigh. “I'm asleep right now, aren't I? Just let me go.”

The demon's eye widened at the statement, false surprise coloring his voice as he pressed his hands to his face. “You figured it out! You know, it's funny. When you fell asleep, you fell off the tree—and didn't even wake up! Pretty deep sleeper, huh?”

Red dusted his cheeks. “Wha—I—”

But the demon was too busy laughing. “When you're embarrassed, you and Pine Tree sure look alike!”

Dipper schooled his expression and watched his antics, raising an eyebrow.

The triangle merely stared back. Then, after a moment, he splayed out his thin arms, conjuring a cane, which he deftly swung between his fingers. “See here, Dipper,” Bill began, “I think you're a pretty powerful guy! You've got a good amount of magic at your fingertips. But don't you want to know more? Don't you want to know the secrets of the universe?” His voice echoed, powerful and all-consuming, as the cosmos reeled across his body.

Dipper merely glanced past the triangle, then began walking towards the Mystery Shack, or the colorless, blurry version of it here.

“Hey!” Bill called, miffed at being ignored. “Where are you going?”

“Exploring,” the teenager said simply. “This is somewhere I've never been, so _obviously,_ I'd like to look around.”

“A curious mind, eh?” Bill teased, drifting after him. Although he'd been about ten feet tall when he'd first appeared, rather intimidating, like a wall, now he was perhaps three feet high at the most, trailing after the human. “Well, looking around isn't really effective. Why don't I just tell you about it?”

Dipper gave him a dismissive glance, eyes wrought with indifference. “You're a demon,” he stated blandly. “What's in it for you? Don't tell me you're bored.”

The triangle seemed to bristle at the term. “What? No!” he replied, scandalous. “Bored. Heh. Me, bored? Why would _I_ be _bored?”_

“Seeing as you've rambled on for a good five seconds, I think you've answered your own question,” Dipper said in a monotone, opening up the door to the Shack and glancing left and right. “But I suppose a few questions wouldn't hurt. Are we alone here?”

“Just me, you, and your nightmares!” the other answered brightly. “Want to see a few?”

Dipper stiffened at the question. “Not particularly.”

“Well, if you don't want to do the fun stuff, then why not a little **deal?”** The demon swung in front of him, twirling in circles as Dipper tried in vain to move past him. “Promise the price isn't out of your league! I'll give you a tour through your Mindscape and answer, let's see, _five_ questions, if you do a little something for _me.”_ His arm, preemptively, lit with blue fire, and he held it out with a shimmering gleam in his black pupil.

Dipper merely pursed his lips, leaning back from the limb shoved in his face. Having a few doubts cleared up would be nice—he was always seeking out answers, after all—but the idea of shaking the demon's hand didn't exactly sit right with him. If there was something both he and Mabel agreed on, dealing with demons was beyond their pay grade at the moment. Better to wait until they were stronger. And yet...the offer _did_ include a tour. “What kind of something?” he hedged.

“Oh! You really put me on the spot, kid.” Bill hummed and retracted his hand, spinning the cane yet again as blue fire danced along its length. He paused, gazing skyward, as though he were thinking—or only pretending to. “How about you get some materials for me?”

“What would I have to get?”

“Nothing too crazy!” Bill chuckled. “There's a glade in the forest with flowers made of crystal.” Abruptly, the face of the triangle flickered and changed, becoming a static image of a circle of trees, centered around thousands and thousands of iridescent flowers, all of them stiff and still despite the wind. Then the image disappeared. “Bring me, let's say, thirty flowers and it's a done deal!”

“You want _flowers?”_ Were Dipper a lesser man, his tone might've been one of disbelief, dumbstruck at the prospect of picking blossoms for a demon. But it spoke volumes that the only emotion to color his voice was skepticism, mistrust at the simplicity of the proposal.

The energy being speedily rapped his cane on the floor, admiring the way the Shack rumbled with a pseudo-earthquake. “So many questions! Let's hope you'll be more creative when the time comes.” He laughed to himself, that obnoxious laugh which came and went like a hurricane as though run on fast-forward. “Anyway, it's for a little experiment of mine! Interested? Maybe I'll tell you about it when we're better friends.” His hand slid out, fingers rubbing under Dipper's chin like he was a cat, a stray merely waiting to be domesticated. The human warily stepped back.

But, considering, he let out a sigh. “How would I get them to you?

Instead of answering, the demon lifted up, shrinking to the size of a potato chip and nestling into his hair. Before Dipper could snatch at him, he jumped away. “Look, Dipper!”

Confusion bade him to look left and right, but as he did so, he felt something shift on his head. Reaching up, he found a slip of paper which grew to the size of a poster in his hands. On it was the wheel from his journal.

Seeing him find the paper, the triangle grew once again, this time just slightly taller than Dipper, but overwhelmingly large nonetheless. “The process is a little different from summoning, but you'll need to carve this into the dirt and place the flowers in the middle. Then say—and listen closely—” His voice became low, abysmal, and the sparse, dim light of the Mindscape flickered and died, leaving Bill the only source of the light in the world. _**“Aperta, ostium ad somnia. Fer hoc humilis holocaustum.”** _

The words burned in his ears, sinking irrevocably into his memories, as though carved into his skin. Dipper immediately slapped his hands over his head, a thoughtless noise leaving his throat at the invasive pain.

But as fast as the suffering came, it left, and the light returned to the grey world, Bill leaning back. “And that's it! Got it, kid?” he said, cheerful, not waiting for a response. “Good! Now that you've got all your questions out of the way, do we have a deal?” He held out his arm, blue fire speeding up his arm like flames on gasoline, no less eager than before.

Dipper slowly straightened from his hunched position, having reflexively curled up as if to escape the pain, and stared at the proffered limb. The work on his part didn't seem _too_ taxing. Find a clearing and pick some flowers. In exchange, some tempting arcanum. It was better than eternal servitude, at least. Wavering a moment longer, the human threw out his arm. “Fine,” he said coolly. “Deal. Your flowers for five answers and a tour of the Mindscape. Alright?”

Without so much as a word, Bill swept his hand in his with a firm, unrelenting grip, eye a single slit of merriment as the roiling blue danced over his arms. Dipper, naturally, was not startled in the least; the fire was cold, gentle, same as his own magic. But even when it faded, Bill refused to let his hand go.

He sighed. “Excuse me?”

The grip only tightened. “See you soon, Dipper! I expect great things from you!” Tighter still, he pulled Dipper into the air, the teenager's calm expression morphing into one of mild bewilderment at being lifted so easily, and by a triangle, no less.

“Wha—”

But before he could even get out a proper question, Bill's arm swung down with immeasurable speed and strength, slamming him into the ground.

He jerked awake with the gasp of a drowning man.

Sweat coating his skin, he looked left and right, but there he was in the dirt, nighttime fast approaching. The sound of crickets filled his ears, trees and grass rustling in the slight breeze. Rubbing at his face, he breathed out slowly, expression smoothing to a blank slate. He might have told himself it was a dream, but Dipper wasn't an idiot; he felt the change in his soul, the marks there, which bespoke of his contract.

Well. Time to leave, then.

He stood, wondering how much longer he could go without proper rest—it had been two days thus far—and, walking into the woods, he swore at the throbbing pain in his hip. From the fall, no doubt. The bruise vanished with a tap of his finger, though his irritation lingered. It was not the matter of the light pain which annoyed him, but the fact he had been hurt at all; the demon had caught him off guard, slipping him into the Mindscape without a second's warning. There was no indication that he could guard against his influence, and that meant Dipper would always be at the demon's mercy.

This only strengthened his resolve to get the deal over with. Bill didn't seem like a pleasant being to deal with, both literally and figuratively. The sooner he found those crystal blossoms, the sooner he could get his answers. And then, of course, he'd find out what was going on here and how he had ended up in this damnable place.

His figure disappeared into the shadowed forest, the crunching of leaves beneath his feet fading and, finally, vanishing entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Longer than usual, I realize now. Not too long, of course. I'm not one of those people who can churn out 10,000 word chapters, or, God forbid, as much as _15,000._
> 
> In any case, I still have a few more chapters in stock for the editing process and all that on my end. Considering how busy school is (and only two weeks in, seriously), I might be pushing back my self-set updating schedule by a little bit so I don't catch up with my own writing. I have a terribly slow pace, you see.
> 
> Well, have a nice day!


End file.
